Meditation: by Howard Thurman a poem entitled "Life Seems Unaware" (The Mood of Christmas, p. 28)
Once again the smell of death rides on the winds
And fear lurks within the shadows of the mind.
One by one the moments tick away.
Days and nights are interludes
Between despairing hope and groping faith.
Of this bleak desolation, Life seems unaware:
Seeds still die and live again in answer to their kind;
Fledgling birds awake to life from prison house of shell;
Flowers bloom and blossoms fall as harbingers of fruit to come;
The newborn child comes even on the wings of death;
The thoughts of men [and women] are blanketed by dreams
Of tranquil days and peaceful years,
When love unfettered will keep the heart and mind
In ways of life that crown our days with light.
Light in the Darkness
Introduction to an Advent Cantata by Dietrich Buxtehude
“Kommst Du, Licht der Heiden?”
Delivered on December 19, 2010 by
The Reverend Axel H. Gehrmann
On a snowy Sunday afternoon two weeks ago, we headed out into the cold, as the sun was about to set, just in time to find a Christmas tree before dark. We knew U of I forestry students were selling them at the corner of Race and Windsor in Urbana.
This year we were quicker and more decisive than usual. Partly because, of the hundreds of trees for sale that weekend, we arrived when only about a half-dozen were left. Also, not all family members were involved in the selection process. Adolescence, I am discovering, can bring with it a reluctance to fully participate in family traditions.
Going out to get a tree is an important part of my annual holiday observances. Every year we pile into the car, every year somehow rushed and stressed. Every year the dynamics and outcome of the selection are different - and yet every year, a tree is acquired.
And every year memories of preceding years echo in my mind. Memories upon memories - of when our children were younger,… when they were infants,… when Elaine and I were a childless couple,… when I myself was a child trudging along with my parents. The memories meld together into a timeless sense of wonder and warmth and hopeful excitement, somehow linked to the sight of an evergreen tree illuminated by dozens of lights, on a dark December night.
With every year I grow older, life seems more fleeting, more precious, more sublime. And every year the annual observances feel more profound.
* * *
Throughout human history, we have attempted to express our sense of wonder, at the miraculous transformations of the world around us and within us. We have created symbols and stories that point to deeper and more elusive truths, which arise from our human experience of despair and hope, of death and new life.
Christmas is a remarkable holiday, because it includes an amazing variety of traditions going back to the very beginnings of our civilization.
Some historians trace the beginnings of our observances back four thousand years to Mesopotamia, a region that lies in today’s Iraq. Four thousand years ago, in December, Mesopotamians celebrated the end of the year for twelve days - like the twelve days of Christmas. But two millennia before the birth of Jesus, they told a different story.
At the end of the year, when the crops had been harvested, the fields were empty and brown, and the world of nature seemed at the verge of death, they told a story of their god Marduk, who had created the world by conquering chaos, and banishing its monsters to a netherworld. The world order Marduk created was not permanent, but slowly deteriorated every year. This annual decline was reflected in the world of nature, as autumn turned to winter. In order for a new year to come, Marduk had to battle the monsters of chaos, so that death would not be complete. It was a grim battle that was fought underground, and every year Marduk almost lost the struggle, but finally won.
Over the centuries this story was transformed and found its way into Egyptian myths about the rebirth of the sun, an infant child of the queen of heaven, Isis, and the Roman festival of Saturnelia, in which Romans honored Saturnus, the god of agriculture, by decorating houses with evergreen branches of pine, holly and ivy.
Echoes of observances four thousand years old are still with us today. Our music this morning brings us melodies four hundred years old. They come from a period called the Baroque, in Europe.
In religious history, the Baroque period follows on the heels of the 16th century Reformation - a time defined by a burst of religious scholarship and scientific progress, to which we trace our Unitarian roots.
Baroque art of the 17th century was more spiritual and sensual - a sharp departure from the clear and sober rationality of the Renaissance and Reformation. Originally the word “baroque” had a derogatory connotation, describing music and art marked by “eccentric redundancy and a noisy abundance of details.”
While Baroque music may seem rather tame and mainstream to us today, at the time it was written, it conveyed a cutting-edge eclecticism, and embraced an unprecedented variety of musical and textual sources.
So, while the text of this morning’s cantata focuses on Jesus Christ, it points to scriptural passages that predate the Christian Gospels by several centuries. “Licht der Heiden,” “light of the Gentiles” - is the key phrase of the title, an image that describes Jesus: a divine light to illuminate our darkness, a beacon of hope for a troubled world.
This image of light in the darkness is drawn from the Hebrew Scriptures, from the Book of Isaiah. Isaiah speaks of this light - perhaps more accurately translated “a light to the nations” - but this light refers neither to the Messiah nor to Jesus. The Light represents God’s chosen people, who are called to serve as models of divine justice to all the world.
Isaiah calls us to be “a light to the nations / to open the eyes that are blind,/ to bring out from the dungeon,…/ those who sit in darkness.” (42:6-7) Light is a symbol of divine justice. And we are charged to make this justice clear and visible to all.
The text of this morning’s anthem is also influenced by the 17th century mystic Angelus Silesius, who wrote, “thou must thyself become the Light / Or God is hidden from thee…”
* * *
Echoes of observances four hundred and four thousand years old can be heard this day. As you listen to the sounds of this morning’s music, may you also hear echoes of melodies and memories of your own life. May we be reminded of the darkest hours we have known, and the light that guided us through them.
